


The More it Burns

by NyxNuit



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Childhood Friends, Multi, No gratuitous music references tho..., Okay maybe just one..., Other cool stuff!, Yuri swears a lot, and Pirates of the Caribbean, dragons!, pirates!, very very loosely inspired by The Dragon Prince, well there's a lot of swearing 'cause...pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxNuit/pseuds/NyxNuit
Summary: Captured by slavers, Otabek and his companions are taken to one of the seediest ports in the world to be sold. To escape the horrible fate awaiting them, he and his friends have no choice but to stowaway on a pirate ship – The Vengeance, captained by the ruthless Captain Fang.
Relationships: Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Mila Babicheva/Original Character(s), Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	The More it Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that project I mentioned? This has been gathering dust on my hard drive since April. It started out as a little scrap. A miniscule puddle of imagination vomit. Next thing I know I was drafting _more of it_. And now it gets to see the light of day! 
> 
> A warning: slavery does exist in this universe. I would advise passing on this story if this is a potential trigger for you. (Please, take care of yourself.)

He spots the column of smoke just before there’s a cry from the crow’s nest.

A ship in distress.

“How bad d’you reckon it is?” Emil asked, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun while squinting in the direction of the burning ship.

“Hard to say,” Otabek replied quietly.

They stand there gawking for a moment longer before Otabek gives himself a shake and goes back to minding his chores. Emil follows suit, muttering as he picks up the bone needle and thick thread. His concentration on repairing the gash in the topsail is broken by an acrid smell that makes his eyes water. He coughs and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow, shielding his airways with sweat-damp fabric. Emil has brought the lapel of his jacket up to protect his nose. Looking past his crewmate and friend, he can see that the smoke is _thick_.

His arm lowers in the shock; they’re close enough to see the airborne ash that has enveloped the unfortunate ship. Glimpses of toxic orange and green through the smog make his heart race with alarm.

“Man overboard!”

His shipmates are pointing to several heads bobbing along the current – survivors, trying to both stay afloat and desperately catch their attention.

Commander Retcrow barks, “Prepare the lifeboats!”

Otabek and Emil drop their work, hurrying to assist in the scramble. Getting the lifeboats down into the water is much easier than getting them – now filled with half-drowned sailors – back up. His shoulders burn with the exertion as he throws his weight into helping his shipmates; his palms are rubbed raw by the rope by the time they get everyone safely on board.

“What happened here?” Captain Arham demanded, “You!” he points to a starved-looking man in sooty clothes, “Explain!”

“The engines caught fire, sir,” babbled the sailor, ringing water out of his engineers’ cap – Otabek spots that he’s missing the tip of his ring finger – “one minute we was doin’ routine checks and the next-“ he mimics the hissing noise just before the engine blew, then mimes the explosion with his hands.

 _Burning oil_ , Otabek realizes. That’s what the smell must be.

The Commander and the Captain exchange a brief look before directing a grim look across the water to the burning wreckage and the flicker of green flame within the ash cloud. Captain Arham starts bellowing orders, “Release the sails! And get these men below!”

“Aye, sir!”

Otabek runs to scramble up the mainmast and release the main top. His fingers pick at knots he’d helped tie just yesterday and he looks down the beam at his shipmates as the ‘Tross’s sails roll free, one by one, and catch the wind, carrying the bulky naval vessel out of point-blank range just in time for the explosion. Otabek clings to the beam with his legs as the ship shudders and rocks, biting back curses as his stomach lurches almost violently. (His shipmates, on the other hand, have no such qualms about watching their language.)

“What the _hell_ was that?” Emil wheezed, clinging white-faced to the mainmast, hugging it for dear life with all of his limbs.

“ _That_ would’ve been the cannons,” Otabek answered dryly, slowly sitting up and squinting at the sea below.

The detonation had blown the remains of the merchant ship absolutely sky high. He frowns at the flotsam bobbing along on the current, with some of the heavier bits finally caving and sinking below the surface. His stomach turns when he thinks about the unlucky ones on board the vessel. The Albatross bobs further and further away, coasting on the waves from the other ship’s explosive demise, and her crew slowly starts to shake off the shock.

Otabek breathes deep through his nose and carefully shimmies his way down. As soon as his boots touch the main deck, he looks out over the water.

“Well,” Emil says cheerfully, “Glad that’s over.”

The second explosion is just as rattling as the first, even from so far away. The deck vibrates with the aftershocks, prompting shouts of surprise and colorful curses from all over the ship. Emil takes a stumbling step back to hug the mast, “What the hell was _that?_ ”

“Crystal reserves,” Otabek answered.

Some of the crew are still clinging to the sides of the ship, wary and braced for a potential third.

“Is it over?” Corporal Rylau asked cautiously.

“I certainly hope so,” Lieutenant Commander Vanna quipped dryly, “You all still have chores to do.”

After such excitement, he appreciates the calm of repairing the torn sail, settling into a meditative state as he weaves the bone needle in and out. The boatswain examines their work with a critical eye when they’re finished before dismissing them with a grunt.

“Not much for words, is he?” Emil commented quietly.

“Shh,” Otabek hushed.

Their impromptu guests are in comparatively better spirits come time for the evening meal, and they’re very…different from the rest of the crew. They’re just as loud and boisterous as most men, but they’re comparatively rougher. Even in the spare uniforms, wearing the same colors as the ‘Tross’s crew, they lack the same refinement and discipline as the trained soldiers.

Still, they seem to ingratiate themselves easily and the sleeping quarters are a great deal more crowded with eight extra bodies.

The spare hands mean the next morning is terribly busy with Commander Retcrow putting them to work after they break their fast, but Otabek and Emil are the only ones who get saddled with assisting the Gunmaster below.

“Think they’ll stay long?” Emil asked, leaning on a tall cleaning rod. 

“I doubt it,” Otabek answered, opening the ammunition chamber to reload the gun, “Captain will most likely adjust course for the nearest port.”

Which will put them behind schedule. They’re expected in the capital in seventeen days’ time, but they can’t push on through when extra mouths just joined their crew of eighteen. Their carefully rationed stores will be gone within a week. Maybe a week and a half if they’re lucky.

“I wonder what company they work for,” Emil squinted, “or if they even work for a company.”

“Must have,” Otabek answered, “a steamer that big would be expensive.” he picks up a block of crystal, dull and colorless in the dim of the gunwale, faintly humming with power between the palms of his hands. He loads it into the cannon’s ammunition chamber and makes sure the door is securely shut, turning the latch until it clicks.

Emil has gone curiously quiet and Otabek looks up at his friend, “What?”

“You don’t like them,” Emil said.

“I don’t know them well enough to dislike them,” Otabek says diplomatically, earning an eyeroll.

“You can say that you don’t like them,” Emil said, “I promise I won’t start a war because you don’t like _one_ person. Or six.”

Otabek pauses, but keep his mouth firmly shut. He’s sure he’s being irrational, having no real basis for his feelings. The tall one that tells fantastical stories of great battles off the shores of Aldbard and escaping the ferocious sirens of the Orahwyn Trench has something unnerving about him. That glittering smile makes the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

While he’s fairly certain that man, who’d instructed the crew of the ‘Tross to call him ‘Red’, is human, Otabek isn’t at all inclined to trust him or any of his lackeys.

And they’re quite obviously his lackeys. Otabek hadn’t missed the second of hesitation to take orders from the Commander after their morning meal and the very brief deferential glances at Red.

Then again, maybe that’s just an old ingrained paranoia that keeps him from trusting anyone.

“The skinny one creeps me out,” Emil confessed, his voice nearly lost under the distant hum of the engines.

Otabek knows exactly which one Emil is talking about; the engineer they’d fished out of the sea with the others. There’s a thin, almost hungry look about him that reminds Otabek of the pigeonrats he used to see in the capital.

“There is something…off about him,” Otabek agrees.

The Gunmaster comes tromping through, her keen eyes sweeping the gunwale, “I’ll be happy to remind you gentlemen that these cannons will not clean and arm themselves.”

“Yes ma’am,” Emil squeaked.

“Sorry ma’am,” Otabek added.

His back aches and his undershirt is unpleasantly soaked through with sweat by the time they finish cleaning and re-arming every single cannon. The Gunmaster takes her sweet time inspecting their completed handiwork and eying them both over for volatile crystal residue on their clothes. If the light hits any stray particles just right, it could set off a spark and cause a fire.

When she’s clearly satisfied that they won’t light the ship on fire, she has them clean and oil the hinges on every single gunport. With one oil can and two cloths between them, they work in close proximity.

“You know, sometimes I wonder what my parents would think if they could see this,” Emil said.

“Were they opposed to you joining the navy?” Otabek asked.

“Not really,” Emil answered, “but I think my father was disappointed.”

“I thought your parents were the type that believed hard work builds character.”

Emil quietly snorts, “A noble’s definition of hard work differs from a layman’s.”

Otabek quietly agreed. He knows his parents certainly wouldn’t be pleased to see him working his fingers to the bone on a military frigate no matter how emphatically he signed up for it. He can’t say he minds it; his aching hands and back are testament to how he’s earned his place here instead of relying on his lineage.

They go down the line, cleaning every hinge until the gunport doors smoothly swing open and shut soundlessly. When the Gunmaster sees their handiwork and is summarily satisfied, she hands them a small sack each of defunct crystals to be taken to the engineers to be recycled for fuel.

“For a minute there I thought she was going to make us recalibrate the lot,” Emil said, shuffling along behind him.

“I think she prefers to do that herself,” Otabek said, carefully navigating the gloom on the way to the engines. Sweat is already beading on his hairline and dripping down his face, the heat slowly becoming oppressive.

“Thank the Creator for that,” Emil muttered, “I’m going to be blowing crystal dust out of my nose for the next three days.”

“Probably longer than that,” Otabek said, “if we’re put on duty with her again.” Being among the youngest members of the crew meant they got stuck with the most tedious work.

Emil let out a long-suffering groan and Otabek suppressed a smile whilst adjusting the weight over his shoulder.

It’s easy to tell they’re getting closer to the engine when pressure gauges appear in two-foot intervals. Otabek doesn’t pay enough attention to the numbers, but some of the needles teeter dangerously a few notches from the red. He doesn’t have to be an engineer to understand that the red isn’t a good sign.

He opens his mouth to point it out to Emil just as they around a corner and nearly run smack into the rat-faced engineer.

The man hasn’t been on board a full day and already the clothes he’s been given are smudged with grime and peppered with scorch marks. In some places, the fabric has been completely singed through, revealing pockmarked skin underneath.

“Annoyances should watch where they’re going,” he hissed, beady eyes narrowed in hateful annoyance, “I have much work to do.”

“We’ve brought crystals,” Emil piped up, “to be repurposed for fuel.”

“From the Gunmaster,” Otabek added.

The engineer sneers at them and takes both sacks from them, “On your way then. Shoo!”

Exchanging a look, they turn back the way they came and make their way out of the engine rooms.

“Well, that was weird,” Emil muttered, visibly shivering.

“Very,” Otabek agreed, frowning.

The Gunmaster waves them off when they get back to the gunwale, dismissing them with a distracted grunt. Their hopes of being able to have a breather are dashed by the boatswain, who sends them up into the rigging to secure the sails. 

“Hey Bek, look.”

He looks up from where his fingers are securing a knot to hold the sail in place and follows the length of Emil’s arm to where he’s pointing to a splotch of red beyond the stern.

Another ship. This one with red sails. He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and attempt to get a better look, though he can’t see what colors she’s flying without a spyglass.

“Curious,” he mutters.

“Wonder if they’re headed in the same direction,” Emil asked, “Eh?”

“Possibly.” It wouldn’t be uncommon for merchants to sail on this route, given that there are two major port cities where it would be profitable to trade and sell goods. His gaze flicks to Lieutenant Commander Vanna prowling across the main deck below and he exchanges a look with Emil before busying his hands.

They lose sight of the ship when the sun sets and it’s out of his mind by the time the evening meal is served.

The quartermaster brings out his dulcimer after dinner and Red’s lackeys teach some new songs to the rest of the crew. Otabek isn’t too obliged to join in the merriment, content to linger on the fringes and watch his shipmates kick up their heels. His eyes slide over to Red, whose grin glitters in the flickering lanternlight, and a strange chill makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up when their eyes meet. That grin doesn’t waver for a minute but somehow takes on a sinister cast.

At the first opportunity, Otabek slips away from the merriment, going below to the crew’s sleeping quarters. He eyes his sword, the scabbard wrapped in unassuming linen and for a single mad moment he’s tempted to wear the sword to bed.

 _I’m being ridiculous_ , he rolled his eyes at himself and climbed into his hammock.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it does come.

The first shout of alarm startles him into full wakefulness and goes tumbling from his hammock whilst groping for his sword. He coughs and his eyes immediately water from the noxious smoke spreading through the crew’s quarters and he spots a flicker of eerie green flame through the haze – crystalspark. He strips off his shirt, pressing the fabric to his mouth and nose to shield his airways and he starts shaking awake the few members of the crew managing to sleep through the mad scramble to stop the flames from spreading too far.

“Fire!” he yells over the shouts of indignation, “Fire! We have to go!”

The sound of the alarm bell can be heard over the crackle and snap of roaring crystalflame; the smoke is growing thicker.

“ABANDON SHIP!”

“Otabek!” he turns, and Emil grabs his arm, dragging him into the push towards the stairs. The fresh air hits his face, and he gulps it into his lungs in between deep bone-rattling coughs.

“What the hell happened?” Emil wheezes.

“I don’t know,” Otabek said, “The cannons must have malfunctioned.”

“That’s impossible,” Emil starts to protest.

Impossible or not, there’s not much time before The Albatross is blown sky high. The main deck is slowly being eaten by noxious green flame, the mizzenmast groaning as the blaze greedily consumes the ship as fuel.

His shipmates are jumping overboard and swimming for the silhouette of another vessel. The twinkling cabin lights are like distant beacons and while a part of him balks, the rest of him wants to survive and being on a burning ship primed to explode is not conducive to that goal.

So, he and Emil make a running leap for the side and dive like they were taught.

The water is comfortably cool after the sweltering heat, but after swimming for what feels like miles its less and less so. His lungs and shoulders are burning but he forces himself to keep swimming lest they get caught in the inevitable aftershock from the figurative powder keg that is The Albatross. He starts treading water, gulping air into his tired smoke-sore lungs and bobbing on the current. He chances a look behind him at the ship he’s called home for the past three years.

She’s engulfed in crystalflame. An eerie green and orange silhouette against the starry backdrop of the night sky. The mainmast collapses with a groan, submitting to the hungry holocaust.

His throat is tight as he watches her burn, his eyes starting to smart and he heavily turns, paddling towards the merchant ship.

Otabek can see his shipmates being pulled on board now and he strains to reach it, wet fingers groping for purchase on her hull. He nearly goes weak with relief when his palm brushes up against a rope and he starts to hoist himself up, ignoring the ache in his shoulders.

“We’ve got another one!”

Hands reach over the side and grasp at his bare arms and he’s hauled over the side of the ship. His relief is short-lived and the words of gratitude on his tongue die a swift death when he locks eyes on his shipmates, all tied up and a few are bearing signs of the whip, undoubtedly the work of the big man with the wicked weapon in his thick meaty hand.

Otabek starts to struggle against the men holding his arms, managing to get one free to land a solid punch. The other captor’s grip loosens in surprise and Otabek seizes the opportunity to pull the sword from the flailing pirate’s hip. The one he punched in the face advances on him with a growl, jaw already purpling, and Otabek slashes at him with the borrowed weapon, splattering the deck with blood.

He pauses when he hears the click of several pistols, his grip tightening on the sword in his hand.

“Don’t shoot him just yet, lads,” says a smarmy – very familiar – voice, and Red struts across the quarterdeck, red leather coat flaring theatrically, “With skills like that he may yet be useful.”

Otabek’s gaze flicks past the swaggering pirate to his comrades tied up and beaten, in a neat little row on the deck.

“You’re a smart boy,” Red appeals to him, “Surrender and live to fight another day, or…” he draws his pistol and clicks off the safety, aiming it directly between Otabek’s eyes, “I blow your brains out.”

He stares down the barrel of the pistol at Red’s cajoling smile. Garnets and diamonds no bigger than the smallest dewdrop sparkled in the inlaid gold used to cap the pirate’s canines. He hears the click and subsequent whine of an armed pistol and sees the big man with the whip has a gun pointed directly at Emil’s temple. His friend is putting on a damned brave face but the fear in his eyes is there and Otabek drops the sword.

Pain explodes across his temple and the top of his cheek when Red whips him with the side of the gun. Colors explode behind Otabek’s eyes and his knees nearly give out. The restraining grip pinning his forearms to the small of his back is the only thing keeping him from faceplanting on the deck.

“Put him with the others,” Red ordered coldly.

Otabek is half-dragged across the deck while he’s still seeing spots. He barely registers the cold bite of the too-tight irons as they’re clapped around his wrists.

“’Bek?” Emil whispered.

“’M alright,” Otabek mumbled back.

“You don’t _look_ alright,” Emil replied, grimacing in sympathy.

“No talking!” there’s a crack of the whip against the deck – a warning – and Emil shuts his mouth.

Otabek can feel the deck underneath him shudder and the ship groans as it sways on the current caused by the Albatross finally meeting her great and catastrophic end. The sound of the blast carries across the water and his vision focuses just in time to see Red smile, “ _That_ is the sound of success, my lads.” prompting cheers from his insidious crew.

“Now,” Red continued, addressing what remains of the Albatross’s crew, “more of you survived than I had predicted,” he meets Otabek’s eyes with a pointed, “Some of you will fetch me quite a pretty profit.”

And Otabek realizes with slowly encroaching horror and disgust that they’d _planned_ this. Everything from the moment the ‘Tross had happened upon the burning ship to this very minute was staged so that they could be sold to the highest bidder as chattel.

“Get comfortable,” Red continued, “but not _too_ comfortable.”

The slaver’s vessel isn’t as large as the military frigate, so the fourteen of them that survived are crammed into two cells of the three that make up the brig.

“On the bright side,” Emil says when the bosun locks them in and walks away with a jangle of keys, “at least we won’t get cold.”

He’s certainly right about that. The brig is leaky, dim, and damp but their proximity keeps them warm. Still, it’s hard to sleep soundly with the knowledge that they’re going to be sold.

His face aches and he’s aware now of the blood drying down into an itchy crust on his skin. He only resists scratching for fear of irritating the already tender skin. He rests his head against the wall behind him, staring sightlessly into the gloom until he manages to doze off, only to be startled into awareness by a hard hunk of bread hitting him square in the chest.

“Eat!” barked a big man outside the cell, throwing bread to them like they’re pigeonrats in a courtyard.

Each soldiers’ bonds clank as they reach for their share of bread and Otabek gnaws at his while the bosun stares them down with mean mealy eyes and only stalks out of the brig when he’s satisfied that none of them are trying to starve themselves to death.

“That guy’s a real nasty piece of work,” Emil muttering, glaring at the bosun’s retreating back.

“I’m surprised they’re feeding us,” muttered Lieutenant Commander Vanna, eying her portion with mild trepidation.

“They want us healthy,” grumbled the quartermaster from the next cell, “Sick slaves don’t sell.”

Otabek feels his face screw up in disgust, appetite drying up at the thought of being perused like livestock.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” asked the corporal, sounding impossibly young and Otabek’s chest tightens. Minami is younger than Otabek was when he decided to join the navy.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Emil muttered bitterly, “They could take us south to Mansha. Hell, we might even go north.”

“Edrhill is too close to the Reach,” argued a lieutenant in the neighboring cell.

“They can’t take us to Kebbeth. It’s too far,” Emil retorted, “So it’s Mansha or Edrhill.”

“They’ll make the best profit in Edrhill,” Otabek murmured, “Mansha’s too heavily regulated.” As one of the major slave ports in the south, there’s major competition that’ll have Red losing out on greater profit. None of the slaver cities have a good reputation but if they’re sold in Edrhill, they’ll have a better chance of making it home.

They clamp their mouths shut at the thin rattle of a tin bucket and the wet slap of a mop against the wood floors. The slaver that comes in to mop the floors sneers at them all with a venomous, “What’re you lookin’ at?”

He looks like he would spit on them all if he could, but resists knowing he’ll be the one to clean it up if he misses. Vanna watches him and the mop with wary eyes. It isn’t long until the entire brig is smelling strongly of boiled brine over the growing funk of overheated soldiers.

Otabek ran his tongue over his teeth, bonds clanking as he shifts his weight, waiting for the sound of footsteps and the wet slap of the mop to disappear entirely to answer Emil’s silent prompt to explain.

“We’re too far north to just turn around and go south,” he said, “especially if they mean to keep us healthy. There’s no way they can feed their crew and us for a journey that long.”

“Who’s to say they won’t let us starve?” asked one of his shipmates.

Otabek shrugged a shoulder.

“If they meant for us to starve why bother feeding us at all?” Vanna snapped, “Why waste their precious resources? To be cruel? They may be slaving scum, but they’re not stupid.” She gives the chains attached to her shackles a pointed rattle, “Does any of it _fucking_ matter?!”

The silence after that is long and heavy.

Emil, the corporal, and the other occupants of Otabek’s cell look oddly cowed by Vanna’s outburst.

There’s no more bickering. There’s hardly any talking at all and the silence is grim.

The deepening gloom and encroaching chill mark the beginning of nighttime, forcing them all to huddle together for greater warmth.

“See? I told you we wouldn’t get cold,” Emil whispered.

Otabek’s mouth quirks in a slight smile.

Just like the first morning, they’re woken by breakfast. This time, they’re pelted with heavily salted jerky that smells slightly brine-y. But the big man in charge of feeding them doesn’t walk away, just watches them with cruel mealy eyes and he sneers at a few soldiers that haven’t moved to eat their share.

“Eat,” he growled.

“Fuck you!” spat the lieutenant junior, throwing the strip of dried meat back at the bosun and it bounces off the bars.

The bosun stands there, the picture of calm before he smiles and it’s sharp with promised violence before he stalks from the brig, shutting the door with a definitive snap.

It’s the lack of immediate and violent retaliation that has Otabek truly concerned.

“Idiot,” the quartermaster hissed, “We’ll _all_ be punished because of your stupidity.”

“You may not want to survive, but the rest of us do,” hissed another.

“I’d rather starve to death than be sold,” snarled Lieutenant Junior Maxbur.

Otabek blinks in surprise when Minami buries his face in his shoulder and lets out a scared little noise. He awkwardly pats the corporal the best he can, limited by the restraints, with a, “There there.” Emil witnesses the whole thing, of course, and he looks torn between amusement and concern.

The hours pass with the fourteen of them anxiously waiting.

The next day nobody comes to bring them their daily meal.

Or the next.

The gurgle and growl of empty bellies joints the ambient sounds of the current slapping against the hull and the occasional curses of the quartermaster.

On the third day the gloom of the brig is unending as the sway of the ship turns to outright rocking. They’re all braced against each other, huddled together as the temperature drops, and their chains clink.

“How’re you holding up, Lieutenant?” Emil asked.

“Honestly,” Otabek looked down at his wrists where the shackles have chafed the skin near raw, “I’m tired.”

Emil chuckled, “Aren’t we all?”

Rain lashes at the deck above and they can hear the muffled yells of the crew, almost entirely swallowed by the howl of gale force winds and bellowing thunder.

“Anybody else got a bad feelin’?” the quartermaster asked, shoulders climbing up to his ears as he tried to make himself smaller where he’s huddled in the corner of the neighboring cell.

“Yeah, it’s called ‘hunger pains’,” Corporal Rylau quipped.

“This ain’t an ordinary storm,” the quartermaster snapped, “the gods are displeased.” 

They all eye the older sailor with a bit of trepidation and his neighbors ever-so-slightly shift their weight away from him.

“I think the lack of food is starting to get to him,” Minami stage-whispered, prompting a few muffled snickers and snorts.

“When are the gods ever pleased?” Emil asked, sounding about as tired as Otabek feels, “They demand more than we mere mortals can give and they’re perpetually disappointed. That’s how it works.”

Otabek suppresses a smile when the quartermaster visibly scowls. It feels strange to smile and laugh when they’re headed for a dreadful fate unless Otabek can rub more than two brain cells together and figure out a way to get them out of this. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, his body tensing as the ship rocks precariously enough to forcibly knock their shoulders together.

The rumble of thunder sounds too close to be a distant system and Otabek wonders if they sailed right into the heart of it. In the next cell, the quartermaster shivers and starts to murmur what he assumes to be prayers.

“Great,” Emil muttered, “Just what we needed right now.”

“It’ll pass,” Otabek replied.

And it does, but only after it gets significantly worse. Otabek isn’t able to get much sleep at all, his stomach turning with anxiety as he wonders if the slaver’s little vessel will last through such a beating. If the ship floods they’ll die for sure. Easy pickings for the dangers lurking in the deep with all of them shackled together.

Minami huddles a little closer, much to Otabek’s bewilderment and Emil’s shaky amusement.

His brain is fuzzy with exhaustion when Red swaggers into the brig flanked by the bosun and another one of his thugs, bedazzled grin glittering even in the gloom. He watches the neighboring cell door swing open and Red’s second thug neatly step over some of the sleeping soldiers to detach Lieutenant Junior Maxbur’s irons from the ring set into the floor. He sees the moment Maxbur wakes and starts to struggle, but a gag is quickly affixed, and he’s roughly restrained. Otabek blinks blearily as the captain shuts the cell door hard enough that the loud clang and subsequent metallic rattle startles the others into sluggish wakefulness. “Excellent,” Red sang, “Now that I have your attention, let’s have a discussion, shall we?”

Otabek feels Emil stiffen with anticipatory dread next to him and Minami makes himself small.

“Hadod, here,” Red indicates the bosun, “is a gentle soul.” The multiple looks of disbelief leveled at the whip-wielding sadist makes the captain hold up his hands in a placating manner, “Now, I know he may not _look_ it, but he truly is. And when you refuse the food, he so kindly brings all of you? It _really_ hurts his feelings.”

Maxbur’s shriek of pain is muffled into the gag when Hadod visibly breaks two fingers.

“This would all work best,” Red raises his voice to be heard over the screams, “if you eat the food you’re given and _keep quiet_.”

Hadod slowly bends back Maxbur’s hand over the unforgiving shackles until the bones in his wrist _crack_. Otabek swallows back the bile rising in his throat as he cringes, his ears ringing with the sound of Maxbur’s high-pitched cries.

Suddenly, he’s not starving. His stomach is all tied up into nauseated knots.

“What say you, then, good sir?” Red neatly loosened the gag.

“I,” Maxbur panted through gritted teeth, “would rather. _Die_. Than be sold.”

Red sighs and straightens, “Well. I consider myself a generous host.” He gestures over his shoulder to the door, “Give the man what he wants.” and his thugs neatly drag Maxbur from the brig. Red heaves a long-suffering sigh, “Such a waste.”

Nobody asks _where_ they took the lieutenant junior when they know that the where doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that he’s not coming back that keeps them all in grim silence while Red sweeps his cool assessing gaze over their shivering starving bodies, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, tell me,” Red takes a step so he’s looking directly between the bars, “do I have your cooperation?”

Minami’s whimper is so quiet, Otabek can’t even be entirely sure he heard it. The corporal is huddled so close that Otabek can feel his breath even through the sweat-dampened fabric of his shirt.

Red tongues one of the jewels set into his teeth and grins so it catches the weak light, “Good.”

The silence that follows the slaver captain’s exit is heavy. There’s a soft sniffle, barely muffled into Otabek’s shoulder and he feels his already-damp shirt become saturated with tears. His chest tightens as he remembers Minami is younger than he was when he decided to join the navy.

“Cooperation,” Vanna sneers, “I’ll cooperate in his hanging.”

“The punishment for a slaver is life in prison,” Emil said, “but I’ll gladly second a hanging.”

Minami sniffles again, “I just wanna go home.”

“Home is a long way off,” Rylau said, “whether we get out of here or not.”

“Speaking of,” Emil pipes up, “anybody have any suggestions? Any at all? No such thing as a bad idea.” He pointedly gives his shackles. “Especially now. Anybody? Azat? Nurlan?” silence meets Emil’s attempts to spark some kind of conversation and he looks despondent when nobody deigns to chime in.

“If I had a fish bone I could…pick the lock?” Gulnaz suggested quietly.

“They don’t feed us fish, Naz,” Ensign Nurlan rolls his eyes, “We haven’t earned the fucking privilege.”

“These shackles are the rate-limiting step,” Rylau agreed, “If we can get them off somehow….”

“Oh, be realistic,” Lieutenant Junior Oret snapped, “where we’re going there’s no return.”

His pessimism sparks a hissed scolding from multiple cellmates and Otabek lets his head thump against the wall behind him with a low sigh.

“You could at least _try_ and have some hope,” Gulnaz said.

Next to him, Minami’s gone stiff as a board and Otabek opens an eye to see the corporal – eyes still red-rimmed and face still damp – sitting up for once. He’s still, head tilted towards the hull – _listening_.

“D’you…d’you hear that?” Minami whispered.

Otabek didn’t have to raise his voice much to be heard but a simple, “Everybody _quiet_.” put an end to the hissed argument and earned him some looks. “What do you hear?”

“We’ve…we’ve stopped moving,” Vanna said, “The sea is still.”

“No,” croaked the quartermaster, “the sea is _never_ still.”

The thirteen of them listen in taut silence, their breathing muted in anticipation.

“I don’t hear a damn thing-“ Oret snapped, his voice as loud as a pistol shot in the otherwise silent brig.

“SHH!”

“Listen,” implored the quartermaster.

They all hear it then – muffled by the hull and the great swathes of ocean between them and their destination, eerie and discordant.

“Wh-what is it?” Minami whispered. Otabek shook his head. He’s never heard anything like it.

It’s not _singing_.

Not really.

Sirens and mers are ‘silent’ hunters, communicating at a frequency much too high for human ears, and they _never_ come to the surface to feed unless they’re desperate.

He strains his ears for a proper listen, gooseflesh rising at the haunting call that travels through the water.

 _Whatever_ it is sounds hungry.

“We’re so fucked,” Rylau croaked just as familiar screams reach them from overhead. They grow in pitch and sound too much like pleading.

“I don’t want to hear this,” Vanna shivered, her shackles clank as the chain is pulled taut so she can cover her ears. Some of the others follow suit – Minami included, who shakes like a leaf and cries silent tears – but Otabek can’t bring himself to block out the screams of his compatriot.

And he knows the captain _wanted_ them to hear. Wanted them to understand that _this_ was the lesson. Maxbur was never going to be granted a mercy killing and neither are any of them, should they choose to be disobedient.

The dying screams of the Lieutenant Junior persist for what feels like an hour but can’t have been more than several minutes – too long for what was supposed to be an execution – and Otabek finally breathes when there’s silence and the familiar slap of the rolling waves against the slaver’s hull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the process of creating a map for this world. I'll most likely end up posting it on my dusty ass tumblr since...I don't really know how to embed photos on here. 
> 
> Again, I don't know _why_ my dumb ass thought it'd be a good idea to do this when I barely finished Fiat Nox (does this count as a rebound fic?? Are rebound fics a thing???) but, like I mentioned, this one has been sitting on my hard drive and growing...steadily bigger. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


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